


Uncommitted

by recrudescence



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chase is on the rebound. Foreman should know better. Co-starring bad tattoos, Cameron's nonexistent ass, and the Pussycat Dolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncommitted

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-Airborne.

House is in Singapore.

The patient, as they do, is dying and lying and the three of you are running around like some blind, bumbling version of Cerberus.

You shave her head and screw her over and since House didn't trust you with the department this time, you follow Wilson around. You're in the lab when Chase and Cameron go to check Fran's house together. While you're pulling for a brain biopsy, Chase runs off again and is right anyway, so you have to admit you really can't rag on him for being distracted by Cameron.

Bromide poisoning. How apt.

It kind of frustrates you that Chase is this good even with so much else weighing on his mind. Now that Cameron's ended it between them, he's finally showing a few cracks.

Instead of simpering at each other, Cameron's been aloof and Chase has been almost sulky. You knew the two of them getting together was a bad idea and "I told you so" burns victoriously in your mind.

Surprisingly, Chase is the first one to mention it, as the two of you are heading for the parking garage one evening. All at once, even though you haven't said a word, he's giving you a long-suffering look and declaring, "Look, you don't get to be mad at me for seeing a co-worker after you did a drug rep, a nurse, and God knows who else. _And_ I've seen you checking out Cameron's ass."

Hearing Chase swear is like hearing a kindergartener belting the Pussycat Dolls: bizarre and a little uncomfortable. With his accent, you can't quite tell whether he pronounces it "arse." But more importantly… "_What_ ass?"

"I'm just saying: you're smug. I get that. This must be hilarious for you."

You've done your best to try and cultivate a work/home division after California, albeit not always successfully. But at least you know what you're getting into and when to call it quits. "Maybe next time you won't shit where you eat until you're one hundred percent sure you can handle it," you deadpan.

Chase rolls his eyes. "Cameron said I was the one she was the least likely to fall in love with. Watch out for her, she'll need someone else to use for an outlet and you're the only one left in the department." He sounds more bitter than you've ever heard him.

You almost feel sorry for him, but mostly you're exasperated and disgusted. And if love is the issue, you really don't want to hear about it. That's a whole new level of asking for trouble. "Look, if she said from the beginning all she wanted was something uncomplicated, you should've just told her no then and there." But apparently Chase had been hoping she would come around eventually, an attitude strikingly similar to Cameron's own regarding House.

"Yeah. It's just that simple." Chase takes out his car keys. You're thinking just how vehemently you have no interest in being the next step in this vicious circle when he asks abruptly, "Do you just want to get a drink?" evidently expecting you to refuse. "You don't like me, but you have to tolerate me and work with me, so seeing me shitfaced should really make your day."

It's not the most flattering invitation you've ever received, and Chase makes it sound both accusatory and self-deprecating, but it's not as if anyone else is clambering for your spare time. Besides, even if you don't fully sympathize with how he got there, Chase is in a pretty shitty state and you aren't callous enough to throw that back in his face. "Where?"

Chase shrugs and admits he honestly doesn't feel like going anywhere crowded, which is fair, since you didn't really want to watch him awkwardly flirt with grad students anyway. "I've got some stuff at home," he offers, eyes on his door handle.

His apartment is inhumanly organized—you haven't been by often, but it's always the same: spotless floors, dustless surfaces, starkly framed art on the walls—with little hints of chaos around the edges. A puff of cloth caught between the jamb and a closed closet door, a mess of DVD cases stashed under the side table, an incongruous bottle of body spray that looks a hell of a lot like something Cameron would use.

Shitfaced is an overstatement. What it comes down to is each of you getting a glass of wine and you half-expecting Chase to spill his all over himself as he fidgets with everything from his shoelaces to the remote.

He tries to make conversation and sucks at it, and you figure you should probably say something at least mildly encouraging while you're lounging on his couch, watching his cable, and drinking his Zinfandel. "That's just how some people operate, getting attached to the worst possible people. At least you're smart enough to figure it out."

Something about him still irks you, and the fact that he's smart has more than a little to do with that. Chase fixes you with an unimpressed thanks-for-trying look and you think back to those times you'd been left in charge of the department and he had just laughed closed-mouthed and leaned back in his chair. That mild face, that disbelieving-but-not-quite-disdainful sound. It's always bothered you that he can set you off without saying a word sometimes. If he were stupid, it would at least be easy to brush that aside.

Poor little rich boy, an antiquated cliché in modern times; he knows you look down on him for that, you're dead sure. For having it easy, though he had it rough in his own ways. When you started working for House, the more you learned about Chase, the more you resented him for being dumb enough to make so many wrong choices when he'd been born into so much. Bad things happen and you don't let them bog you down; you raise yourself above them, bootstrap it, and anyone who isn't strong enough to do the same…that's their problem.

"This is so stupid," he mutters, gazing sullenly into his glass. You raise an eyebrow and take another swallow.

"Just shut up and deal," you say, a little surprised at how amused you sound. You know you're not always the number-one shoulder to cry on—Wilson has that honor—but you also know that patience isn't always a virtue. Chase has been wallowing long enough. "Is this your way of jumping in line to get on Dr. Phil's couch?"

"No, this is me jumping in line before Cameron makes a move on you." You can't tell if he's actually serious. Cameron might not always be rational, but she isn't heartless, not by a long shot.

"Gee, Dr. Chase, way to throw your bad mood on as many people as possible. Bring us all down with you." Which isn't really a fair thing to say, since aside from the kicked-puppy demeanor at work, he's still contributing to cases as assiduously as ever.

"So…what, I should steal a car to vent my frustrations?"

It's a cheap shot and Chase has to know it. Even House has gone a respectable amount of time without bringing up that incident.

"Only if that's the healthiest alternative you've got," you answer, shrugging easily, and Chase smiles for the first time.

His hair is idiotic. It gets in his eyes, in your eyes, in both your mouths. He kisses carefully at first, feeling you out, waiting it out. He's good at it, something you're beginning to appreciate when he draws back and looks at you just as carefully: _gauging_. If this is what he had in mind when he asked you over to begin with, it doesn't seem like it.

You end up grappling, wrestling down onto the bed, wineglasses abandoned on the table, clothes abandoned along the way. Chase's lips are curved and pink and his cheeks are flushed, his cock is flushed, and his mouth slants and gasps against your own, tasting like wine. He seems more at ease now than he has all week. He doesn't try to cling and cuddle, but when you touch him, he touches back immediately, clearly not wanting to break contact either. He takes what he can get, and so do you. You'd seen him cast little amused glances your way when Marty Hamilton—Marty _fucking_ Hamilton—was visiting, and you'd seethed inwardly while making sure to give nothing away.

Flipping and fighting to be on top, and Chase smiles and struggles and strains appealingly, pinning your shoulders and lapping along the side of your neck until you shake him off and turn the tables. It's a game within a game, playing for position while playing up the illusion that the two of you are just blowing off steam and there aren't any wider ramifications of this. If you didn't know just how abysmally the "it's just sex" schtick fails, you'd let yourself believe it. This is a bad idea, a horrible idea, and you go along with it anyway.

You're not sure if it's about Cameron fearing attachment or Chase craving it—but slowly, only when he feels certain enough to shed his defenses, venturing out a little at a time; it isn't your problem, but you've noticed it all the same—but you're not here to fix anything. Just to provide some side entertainment. Apparently.

Then Chase is lazily rocking his hips against yours, humming in satisfaction when you groan, and mumbling, up against your lips, "You know how it goes, right?" He could be referring to sex or something more significant, but the next thing you know he's tossing a condom at you, pressing glistening-slick fingers inside himself, and his mouth is opening around a quiet cry as he slides down onto you. Hair in his eyes again.

He rakes it back, rams his hips down harder, and sets the pace, fast and brutal. A pleaser to the end, he watches your face through half-closed eyes. Your fingers dig into his sides and shoulders until he slips out of your grasp, leaning out of reach until his body is bowed in a pink-flushed arch and he's practically lying on his back—and okay, that's hot, flexibility always is—and your hands are pressing hard on his thighs. You can forget you're not supposed to like him, though there's no denying he's attractive, and normally that's another part of what gets under your skin: prototype of the pretty rich kid who doesn't know what to do with himself.

Chase's voice twists around a near-whispered "Oh, _God_" as his entire body seems to clench around you and over you, and then you forget everything else.

"I'm glad I caught you on the rebound," you say mildly, once you've disengaged and straightened out, and he does one of his almost-laughs. It doesn't make you want to punch him this time. Credit where it's due, Chase on the rebound is spectacular. If this is what he's like the rest of the time, you can't help but think Cameron must have some regrets of her own.

His skin is a little tan, which makes you wonder idly if it's natural or if he's vain enough to go tanning. Chase doesn't exactly give the impression he pays much attention to how he looks. It's smooth and unmarked under your palm; no interesting scars, no tattoos. You'd sort of expected one, since you imagined he might have gone on a bender after quitting the seminary. Wendy had had a few lines of poetry twining over one hip, but you can't even remember the poem anymore. You have a few here and there, mostly ill-advised benchmarks of adolescence. The most recent is on your forearm in spindly black script. You were in med school when Camille was born; Marcus was in jail. A friend of yours did it for free, since you couldn't afford anything expensive and you weren't about to give something half-assed and cheap. You'd learned early on that getting a tattoo of a name was a surefire harbinger of bad luck, and you still catch yourself mentally clucking your tongue when you notice them, so you'd had the birth date done instead.

Your brother's ex-girlfriend had been flattered beyond belief, but Marcus had been pissed off, saying it wasn't your place.

The good brother and the bad one. For a while, you'd thought you could reform enough for the both of you. Marcus's ex got married four years ago and Camille's going to be starting middle school soon. It's been a while since you visited and you're almost positive Marcus would still hate you for trying to help, just on principle, taking it as a personal vendetta to show up his own shortcomings.

"Niece," you say shortly as Chase surveys it. You've seen each other change clothes, scrubbing in and out, but just cursory glances. You always make sure to layer a long-sleeved shirt under your scrub top anyway, to put the patients at ease.

"Mmph," he grunts noncommittally.

He doesn't ask questions and you don't offer any answers. It's best that way.

It's not going to be a regular thing, but you know that if you could separate work from pleasure you'd probably do it again. Good sex is still good sex. But you're not about to make the same mistake that's just been waved under your nose, and you definitely don't want to get on Cameron's nerves the way the two of them had gotten on yours. The department doesn't need any more dissent in it.

He dozes. You shower and leave, and you wonder. Weigh the idea of letting it happen again, the two of you falling back into bed some other time, pushing and gasping till you come, you leaving him to himself afterward and never so much as mentioning it again. Chase can't be anything but a colleague to you or things will go to hell.

Not too long ago, it seems, you were having a conversation with Cameron about this. It can never just be about sex, even for a wide-eyed immunologist who chooses her relationships because she's scared of something actually lasting. You'd made sure to let her know that you weren't criticizing her for shying from intimacy, and later it occurred to you that you hadn't known Chase's side of the story. He knows about her penchant for addicts, lost causes, and the terminally ill just as much as you do, and he'd gotten attached to her anyway.

But you shouldn't have to know his side. You shouldn't be involved.

You should be pissed at him for roping you into this, whether he meant to or not, but you're also pissed at yourself for going along with it and even more for liking it. As you walk through your front door, you realize that you're starting to think maybe you can see where Cameron's coming from.   



End file.
